


Dropped Bowls and Arranged Marriages

by blackbird_flying



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Language, F/M, Politics, but mostly as an excuse for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbird_flying/pseuds/blackbird_flying
Summary: It was actually Bedivere who made the suggestion, which was a surprise. The Mage could usually be counted on to voice some terse advice right when no-one wanted to hear it, bluntly outlining the unwelcome truths of a situation. But it was Bedivere who suggested the marriage.Or, Arthur and The Mage get married





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a Happily Ever After, sorry. I love reading those fics most of all, so it was to my own disappointment that this story didn't work out the way I wanted.
> 
> Originally inspired by the tags on this post: http://harrietvane.tumblr.com/post/163995813666/marianhwkes-did-you-see

It was actually Bedivere who made the suggestion, which was a surprise. The Mage could usually be counted on to voice some terse advice right when no-one wanted to hear it, bluntly outlining the unwelcome truths of a situation. But it was Bedivere who suggested the marriage.  
  
They had just finished a disastrous state dinner with a delegation of nobles from the west. Arthur had shucked off his scratchy formal coat the minute they departed for the night, and was silently debating whether to rid himself of his shirt as well. The regulars sat about, dissecting what could or could not have gone differently. As Wetstick outlined, yet again, his opinion on, “fucking useless aristos,” Bedivere broke in calmly.  
  
“You will have to marry a mage,” he said, eyeing The Mage.  
  
“Well, Bedivere, if marrying off The Mage will stop her hopeless flirting, maybe we would be more productive,” quipped Arthur. “Damn distracting as it is.” He tended to gauge the success of his teasing by her reaction: on a scale from bodily harm to complete dismissal, this particular sally was greeted with a depressing lack of response.  
  
Without turning his eyes from The Mage, Bedivere repeated, “Arthur, you will have to marry a mage.”  
  
The Mage blinked quickly, then looked down without responding. Wetstick recovered from his earlier monologue and hooted in delight. “Arthur and The Mage? She’d cut his bollocks off before the wedding night!”  
  
Arthur stopped pulling at the ruffled collar of his shirt (why did being a king mean wearing uncomfortable clothes?) and cuffed the back of Wetstick’s head. “Oy! Why are you talking about my royal jewels? I think that might be treason, I could have your head.”  
  
“You can take me head, as long as I get to see you and The Mage married. Think I might die on the spot anyway!” Muttered Wetstick, although he subsided, looking nervously at The Mage.  
  
Arthur started shaking his head. “Bedivere, I never took you for an idiot. What the hell are you talking about?”  
Bedivere looked up at Arthur. “We can’t fight another war.”  
  
Somehow, being “the one true king” hadn’t managed to end tensions between mage-borns and the rest of the population. Arthur had issued a decree immediately after his coronation ten months ago, but the killing of mages continued in the countryside. Meanwhile, in the cities mages who had hidden underground for years were finally showing themselves. They were demanding their rights, and non-magical citizens were becoming more alarmed. Tensions had been escalated by a bad harvest that some were blaming on magic. The western nobles had come to complain about riots and the imminent threat of another mage-war. They had assured Arthur the mage burnings were happening in some other regions, nothing to do with their own fiefdoms. They were helpless to stop the situation, and would Arthur please fix everything? Clearly, the nobles were not going to, “get off their useless arses,” anytime soon, as Wetstick had put it earlier in the night. Which left Arthur with a country that was quickly headed toward civil war, and no particular allies in sight.  
  
“Let me get this straight: you want me to marry The Mage?” Arthur asked, finally getting his teeth into the conversation and beginning to pace back and forth. “Let me tell you the ways that would go wrong, Bedivere my barmy lad.” Bedivere sat back, waiting impassively as Arthur started in on him. “One, non-magical citizens who are worried about mages aren’t exactly going to start feeling all warm and cuddly if I up and marry one. They’d be more likely to think I was bewitched, and come for my head. I quite like my head where it is, unlike Wetstick here,” Arthur slapped Wetstick’s shoulder, who simply looked bemused. “Two, marrying a mage wouldn’t necessarily placate the other mage-borns.” Here he pointed at The Mage, seemingly daring her to disagree with this point. “Because as long as they’re being burned at the stake, who the hell cares who’s got a fekkin’ crown on their head? They’d start a war anyway.” Rounding back to Bedivere, Arthur continued, “Three, marrying a mage means I can’t marry one of the blighted sodding Northern girls to avert a war with the stupid Vikings, so even if the citizens didn’t come for my head and the mages didn’t start a war, the Northerners would sweep in, take over, and rename everything some unpronounceable gibberish.” Arthur finally paused for a breath here. Bedivere’s impassive face betrayed the barest hint of a smile after this tirade. Then Arthur finally added, “Four, I’m quite fond of my royal jewels, and as much as I love The Mage, she would definitely do some damage.” Wetstick snickered at this, while The Mage rolled her eyes.  
  
Maggie spoke for the first time, from her seat by the fire. “That’s why it would have to be a royal production.” She had served as a spy for the resistance in the old king Vortigern’s household for years. No one knew how she had survived, but it probably had something to do with the impenetrable reserve that hid her rather brilliant mind. “You will have to go on tour. Introduce every city and town to your new bride, convince them of your happiness and the fact that mages are not dangerous...to you.” Bedivere finally did smile at this. He always had a soft spot for Maggie. She continued, “Use the cover of a wedding procession to check in on the nobles, make sure they are ruling the way you want them to. Stamp out the mage burnings in person.” Wetstick began to nod, seeming to appreciate the idea of sticking it to the nobles. “A marriage could turn the threat of the mages into a strength against the Northerners. They will hesitate to attack if we are united, rather than fighting one another.” She shot a quick look at The Mage. Being friends with The Mage was a daunting proposition, but Maggie probably came the closest to that feat. “Of course, that would mean The Mage would have to play the part of a beloved bride.”  
  
The Mage snorted at that, and finally spoke. “It is a stupid plan. But politics are always stupid. I did not win you the crown to watch you lose it to the Vikings or the nobles. If you can manage to act like a grown man and not a twelve-year-old boy, I can play along.”  
  
Arthur paused in his pacing at that. “Me? A twelve-year-old? I don’t know where you get these ideas, my darling Mage.” Still, he looked slightly taken aback by her agreement with the idea.  
  
Bedivere nodded at Maggie. “Yes, it will be a delicate balance. You will have to sell those who want to be convinced a tale of epic love between a mage and their king.” Wetstick coughed into his fist at this. “For the skeptics, you will have to make it clear that you have enough power to enforce their obedience. All the while, you will have to convince the Vikings of our unity.”  
  
“Ah, a long con. Arthur can pull one of those off,” said Wetstick.  
  
“Well…” cut in Kay. She’d worked at the brothel with Arthur and Wetstick before the revolution, and had since joined the ranks of the knights due to her skill with a rapier. “I love you like a brother, Arthur, but you’re not the patient sort. So we should make the wedding happen soon. Maybe on the anniversary of your coronation? That’s only a few months away.”  
  
“Yes, that should be enough time to plan a decent celebration,” Maggie agreed. “Then you can tour through the country for the next six months or so, convincing everyone of your love and stamping out rebellions.”  
  
“Hold it, hold it!” Arthur called out. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet, and you’ve already set a date?” He turned to The Mage. “Do you really not have anything to say to this?”  
  
“What’s there to say?” She replied. “It’s practical. It will save the kingdom. Do you have a better idea?”  
  
Arthur stewed for a moment in silent frustration, then reached out and grabbed The Mage’s arm, towing her from the room. In the relative privacy of the hallway he released her quickly, as his palm was beginning to blister with mage-induced heat. The glare she sent him at being manhandled was not any cooler. “I’m sorry,” he burst out, “but just…what does being practical have to do with anything? It’s fucking practical to give your friends of more than a year a name to call you by, instead of just a title.” He was waving his hands about in a rather emphatic manner. “It’s practical to attend the coronation of the man you helped make king, instead of skulking in the countryside and watching it through the eyes of a hawk. You’re not a practical person, you’re…you know…‘The Mage!’” he fumed. “And now you’re suddenly okay with getting married?”  
  
The Mage knew Arthur. She knew he was a gambling den of a man, flashing lights and pretty lures up front. He would joke with his lads and take the piss, but below there was a silent, calculating machinery designed to keep him winning. It was interesting to see that machinery come uncovered. She’d witnessed it twice before: once on the day he had been captured by Vortigern’s men and his adopted mother had been killed. That had been the day they met, actually, and even that pain had been quickly smothered by his practiced flirting and deliberate annoyances. The second time they had been cornered in George’s training hall. His friends had all been about to die for him, and a dagger had begun to slice into the back of her neck. He hadn’t gained control of the damned sword yet, but that didn’t stop him from laying waste to every guard in a mile’s radius. No, Arthur was not a simple man. But she knew what made him tick, and so she answered calmly, “Call me Emrys.”  
  
Arthur ran his hand through his hair, rubbing the tension at the back of his neck. Emrys, right. He was suddenly reminded of the time she had asked him to hold her hand. He had known what was coming, but he had reached out to feel her cool, callused palm between his own as a snake slithered up his arm. He had held on to her hand like an anchor as the snake bit into his pulse, slowly poisoning him. It was all to a point, of course; she was a mage, and the snake carried magic that would eventually win him the throne. Still, he knew what came of holding The Mage’s hand. But it seemed he was idiot enough to try again. “Emrys? I sound like I’m coughing up phlegm…a queen needs a flowery name, like Rosamunde, or Christabelle, or Gwendolyn…Guinevere! That’s it, Guinevere, that sounds right queenly.” Turning from her, he marched back into the room, announcing “Guinny and I are getting married, apparently!”


	2. Chapter 2

Emrys eyed Arthur over the edge of the huge four poster in their new bedroom. Apparently, the once and future king deserved a bedroom whose ceiling didn’t leak, even though half the castle was still being rebuilt. She might have gotten a bit carried away with that gigantic snake, but who could blame her? Some men deserved to be swallowed whole. Speaking of which…  
  
“What are you doing?” The Mage asked.  
  
“Hmm?” Said Arthur, looking up from his furtive shimmying. He’d retreated behind one of the bedposts to change into some of his old training clothes, since he didn’t really own any pajamas. “Just getting ready for bed-” He broke off abruptly as he turned towards The Mage, who had begun to unbutton her wedding dress.  
  
“Arthur. You know we are going to fuck, right?” Emrys asked. She finished unbuttoning and slid the dress over her head.  
  
There was a good five second pause as Arthur’s eyes lost focus, before he responded with a curt, “What?”  
  
“You are king. You need heirs, your people need to be sure of our marriage. So we are going to fuck.” Emrys laid the dress on a nearby chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle, then turned back to Arthur. “Surely you must have thought of this?”  
  
“You’re having me on, yeah?” Arthur asked. “Who put you up to this? It was Wetstick, right?” He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “I’ll kill that tosser.”  
  
Emrys rolled her eyes, then started untying her shift. “Calm down, Arthur. It’s just fucking. You want to keep the kingdom, right?”  
  
The shaky smile left Arthur’s face, and after a moment he turned away abruptly. He walked to the washbasin on the other side of the room and braced his arms on it. The Mage could see his shoulders hunch and ripple. With a deep breath, he poured the pitcher of water over his head, then ran his hands over his face and through his hair.  
  
Arthur had done his best, since meeting The Mage, to avoid imagining what her lips would feel like. What noises she might make with his cock deep inside her. What the curve of her hip would look like, limned against the morning light. She was The Mage, after all. She destroyed castles and poisoned kings and sent men into the hell of the Shadowlands. She was more powerful than he would ever be. But more than that, she was distant. At first he thought it was her power that kept her apart from everyone, a mage-born difference within her blood. But he knew by now that it was a choice she made every day. Or perhaps it was a choice she had made long ago, and simply forgotten how to unmake. Whatever the cause, that distance had always seemed insurmountable. But she had agreed to this marriage, and now she was asking him to touch her, to take her to bed and fuck her. It was some sort of temporary madness, it had to be, but Arthur decided he wasn’t going to let it pass by. He took another breath and turned back to face her. “Right. Fucking, you said?”  
  
His eyes were serious now, and if The Mage had been a lesser person, she might have been slightly intimidated as Arthur walked towards her. He came to a stop a few inches from her, close enough for her to see the water beading on his eyelashes. “Did you have a quick tup in mind, or am I allowed to kiss you first?” He reached out and caught a strand of hair that had come untucked from her braid, rubbing it between his fingers.  
  
“I do not tell you how to do your job,” she answered, denying the curve of a smile her lips wanted form.  
  
“That’s all you do, woman,” he said, and leaned down and kissed her.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur trudged besides Wetstick. The marriage procession had reached the Northern edge of the kingdom, and it hadn’t stopped raining in recent memory. A long line of horses and carriages and poncey nobles had churned what originally might have been a road into a marsh of muck. At the last inn, Arthur had declared that he’d had quite enough plodding for one morning, and taken off with Wetstick. They were making better time than the procession simply by walking through the heather several paces from the “road,” and had temporarily outstripped their party. Arthur sighed, and rubbed the rain from his face.  
At this, Wetstick abruptly spoke up. “All right, Arthur, what’s going on?”  
  
“Hmmmm?”  
  
“That’s at least the hundredth time you’ve sighed in the last five minutes. And you’re not usually such a stick in the mud, even when you’re a lot less muddy than you are now.” Wetstick waved at the muck that stretched as far as the eye could see. “What’s up your arse?”  
  
“Well…we’re mates, right Wetstick?” asked Arthur.  
  
“Naw, I’m just trudging through this shit because the rain is good for my complexion.” Wetstick said, as he batted his eyes prettily. He did have beautiful eyes.  
  
“Fuck off.” There was a pause here, and Arthur gathered his thoughts. “Well, I have mates like you, right? My lads. You, Kay, Bedivere when he’ll come off his high horse.”  
  
Wetstick nodded. “Right, we’re friends. I got that much. Where are you going?”  
  
“Well, and then there are people I fuck. Angela, back at the brothel, that lass I met in East Londinium.”  
  
Wetstick rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’re a proper Romeo, no need to list your accomplishments. If you’re working up to propositioning me, I’m going to have to break your heart.”  
  
“Ok, ok, but that’s kind of my point, isn’t it?” Arthur suddenly turned to Wetstick, breaking his stride. “There are people who are your friends, that you also want to fuck!”  
  
Wetstick started walking again. “Arthur, you’re pretty as a picture, but I don’t think of you that way.”  
  
Arthur strode after him, cuffing his shoulder. “No, come on. Have you ever had a friend you wanted to fuck?”  
  
Wetstick thought, then said, “Well, Ella and I were friends for a while, before we took up together.”  
  
“Right! So you can be friends with someone, and also fuck them. But they’re still just friends, right?” Arthur asked.  
  
Wetstick slowed his pace, thinking. “Well, that depends, Arthur. Sometimes you’re just friends that sleep with each other, sure. But with Ella, you know, I had feelings for her.”  
  
Arthur was silent for a moment. “How do you know, then? Because I’d die for you, mate. You’re my lad. I feel the same way about Kay. I’d do anything for you.”  
“Dunno what you’re asking, exactly, Arthur,” Wetstick said, as he eyed Arthur quizzically.  
  
The mud squelching below his boots suddenly took up the king’s attention. “How…how do you know if it’s more than just being mates? If it’s not the fucking that makes it something else, how do you know?”  
  
“Well. I dunno.” Wetstick sighed. “When I first started seeing Ella, it was like my heart was walking around outside my body. You’re my mate, Arthur, I’d do anything for you. But I don’t care if you hate my hair.” Wetstick paused, and ran a rueful hand through his short locks. “When Ella didn’t like my hair, it hurt. I cut it all off.”  
  
Arthur nodded slightly, thinking. He remembered the first time he held Blue, a few days after he was born. Back Lack had been falling all over himself with pride, nothing had ever been as perfect as his son. Arthur just remember how tiny he had been. Blue’s head had fit in the palm of his hand, a tracery of veins visible below the surface. Blue was beautiful, yes, but painfully fragile. He couldn’t even hold his own head up, and Arthur had been terrified by his vulnerability. The line between Blue’s life and death was as thin as the pale skin of his scalp, as easily broken as a dropped bowl. At the time, Arthur had thought no beauty worth that helplessness. After all, he had spent his entire life making sure he would never be vulnerable to Vortigern, or anyone else who wanted to hurt him. Up until a few weeks ago, he would have said nothing could reduce him to that level of vulnerability again. Until a few weeks ago, he would not have thought anything worth it.  
  
Arthur began, hesitantly, “So. If I feel…helpless…around someone, that’s how I’ll know? That’s what makes it more than mates?”  
  
Wetstick smiled, and slung an arm around Arthur’s hunched shoulders. “Love, huh? It hurts.”  
  
They trudged on in silence for a few minutes, before Westick started back up. “So, are you going to tell her?”  
  
“Huh?” Arthur seemed to be making clueless noises a lot lately, and it was becoming a disconcerting pattern.  
  
In an overly patient voice, Wetstick replied, “Are you going to tell The Mage you love her?” He added, with a mostly concealed snicker, “Can I please be there when you do?”


	4. Chapter 4

He didn’t tell her, of course. Not that night, when Emrys gave him that glare of hers and demanded to know what possibly could have possessed him to fight Wetstick in the middle of the moors. Not for the rest of the god-forsaken, if successful wedding procession. Pretending to pretend to love her was a special circle of hell, and the knowing looks he intercepted between his knights didn’t help things. He told himself that he might be an idiot, but he wasn’t a self-destructive idiot. The raw, painful flutter at the back of his stomach wasn’t anyone’s business. Besides, what did Wetstick know. But he was probably just a coward. And so they trudged from bum fuck nowhere to even more deserted “towns,” and Arthur did his best to be a politician.  
  
And they stopped some mage burnings and intimidated some nobles (no surprise, that was his favorite bit.) And they somehow managed to adopt a few mage-born kids that trailed Emrys around. She seemed startled but not necessarily bothered, and downright humorous when her shadows took to sic’ing a cloud of sparrows on anyone they disliked. The first time Wetstick ran cursing and ducking across their campsite, pursued by these rather irate little missiles, Arthur almost caught a smile on her lips before she turned her face away.  
  
And Arthur tried not to look at her, tried not to catalogue every expression on her face and every involuntary twitch of her hand. He knew she didn’t feel that way about him. Somehow, along the way, he had learned how old she was. She never told him exactly. But the way she spoke about the ruins of ancient castles they found, the distant look her in her eyes when sharing details (she shouldn’t have known) about the thrice-bedamned sword gave him a clue. He might be a bloody idiot, but he knew she was as ancient as she was powerful, and he was merely a blip on her timeline. So he tried not to watch her.  
  
And they fucked. It was good, it was too good sometimes. Arthur tried so hard to keep some distance, to hide what it meant to him. He’d never felt so weak, so ridiculously exposed, and part of him hated her for that. The way she could hold him, kiss him, fuck him without inhibition, and then regard him with that same cool distance. He held on to the knowledge that it wasn’t her fault with both hands, gripped it tighter than he had ever held any weapon. She did not owe him love. She didn’t owe him anything.  
  
When they got back to the capital, she took to training her apprentices during the day, having dinner with Maggie most evenings. She seemed happy. He tried to take comfort in that, tried to smooth her way towards starting an official mage-training program. When she began to sleep in her own rooms at night because the training was running so late, he knew he ought to be happy. It hurt to see her less, but he knew it was what she wanted. It wasn’t exactly a surprise when the fucking trailed off. She hadn’t gotten pregnant, but the political situation wasn’t dire anymore. And Arthur knew she’d never really wanted to be pregnant, that her apprentices were as important to her as any biological children at this point. It was one less vulnerable moment for him, he supposed.  
  
About eight years after his coronation, she left. He didn’t need her for the kingdom’s stability anymore, although in his darker moments he considered asking Maggie (newly inaugurated spy-master) to stage some disturbances just to keep her around. But Maggie was probably more loyal to The Mage anyway, and Arthur was doing his best not to be overtly pathetic. By that point it didn’t make much of a difference in his daily life. He hadn’t seen her often at the end anyway, although the gossips spread some shit about her running off with one of his knights. Arthur let them, because it was easier than explaining she just never loved him that way. At first it was hard to breathe at night, the weight of her loss a heavy thing in his lungs. Slowly, it transformed into a bittersweet ache, as familiar as sore muscles after training with George. She was happy, and the kingdom was safe. Maybe the next time he had to use these particular muscles, it would be a bit easier.


End file.
